Time
by snapletonius
Summary: 5/6 part multichapter fic that chronicles Sherlock and John's lives: Before, During and After they meet. With two times for each heading (as in two instances/memories) and each of their points of view! Summary is a bit terrible... Oh well :) Trigger warning (first chapter) drug use and self harm
1. Chapter 1

**TW: Drug use and Self harm**

**Sherlock**

**Before the yard**  
It was pitch black, London at 2am was not a safe place to be. The streets were teeming with violence and junkies. Sherlock Holmes was a member of the latter. He was bored. Intolerably so. His mind needed stimulation, and drugs were the answer he came to. Heroin was a favourite of his, the process of injection was oh so scientific. It gave the best results too, his mind whirled down hundreds of paths at breakneck speeds, and it was a glorious world of information and colour.

Sherlock Holmes could not see his emaciated body, or the dank alley in which he was lying. He did not see the young officer rush to him. Only after a long period of shaking did he acknowledge the presence of the man who was kneeling next to him. "Ah, first day is it? Yes detective I'm under the influence of narcotics but then again so are you, though you're attempting to quit. You might want to tell your brother to stay away from your wife in future, your tie says it all. As for the serial killer you have a case on, it's very clearly the security guard. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective."

It took the officer a moment to sort through the barrage of information. He knew it was unorthodox but in his gut he felt this man, this Sherlock Holmes, was not lying to him. "Detective Greg Lestrade. I think I might have to arrest you , regardless of your knowledge of a private police investigation." Lestrade said shakily, hoping that there was a way out of it. The trail of the killer had gone cold and it would mean the world to him to be able to close a case. It was his first London case, but he had been an officer before in Manchester. Solving this would make him a shoe in for the detective inspector position.

"If I am incorrect by all means, arrest me." Holmes said, smirking from his position on the ground. "I bloody hope you're right Holmes." Greg stood up and held out a hand to pull the skeletal man off the floor. Sherlock grasped it and raised himself up. The effects of the hit were barely noticeable now. Lestrade was on the phone, instructing a team of officers to arrest the security guard. He waited in silence at Sherlock's side. Half an hour rolled by when Greg got a call. The security guard had confessed. "Jesus. You were right." His mouth was open in an o of surprise. "The advice about your brother is correct also." Lestrade blanched at this but quickly regained his composure.

"Where do you live Sherlock?" he sighed, this was not going to be very pleasant. "Across the Thames, 12 Bushmill place." Greg nodded and gestured towards the police car at the end of the street. "I refuse to be carried in a police car like some sort of criminal." Lestrade rolled his eyes. "You'll be in the passenger seat, most criminals stay in the back, just get in the car" Sherlock pouted and clambered in, exhausted. They drove and on arrival Greg half carried him inside. He laid Sherlock on the sofa before sitting back on the chair. He had an idea.

Before he had even opened his mouth Sherlock was speaking. He sighed. "My mind, Lestrade, is in constant need of stimulation. When I cannot get that from investigating crimes I simply resort to the only other form of stimulation that is effective." Greg nodded. Clearly the man was brilliant, and he didn't doubt for a moment that this was true. Looking at his wasted body and gaunt face gave the detective reason to pause. This man needed Greg as much as Greg and the entire of Scotland Yard needed him.

"I'll cut you a deal Sherlock. If there's any interesting cases on that we can't figure out, I'll call you in. You can do whatever it is you do to solve the case as long as, in return, you give up the drugs altogether." Sherlock surveyed him through half closed eyes. "Does that include cigarettes? I'll take that as a yes. Fine. Call me when you idiots can't use your eyes." Greg smiled at this. Everyone was going to hate him. He made to leave but tossed a small box back before he left. Sherlock stared at it. Nicotine patches.

**Before John**

It had happened again. The same thing over and over. Sherlock Holmes was many things, a detective, a genius, a violinist. He was nothing if not a great actor. They had no clue. No idea at all of what he was really like. They couldn't see what was truly going on under their noses. He wanted it that way. Made it so. Sherlock Holmes was ashamed. Mainly of his ability to feel emotions, the fact that they affected him so uncontrollably made him loathe his very being. He was above feeling, sentiment. Or so they believed.

His mask was a master piece, his skills of deduction the perfect weapons to retaliate at those who hurt him. Often, this was not enough. Today was one of those had torn back into the empty flat and sat on the floor. He tried to enter his mind palace but it was full of words and faces that attacked him at every turn. "Freak freak freak" they chanted, over and over. He could not delete them.

There would come a time in the future when he did not resort to this, when he would be so good at faking it that perhaps it would become reality. For now, feelings overwhelmed him. There was no drug on the planet that could change that. A strong sedative might help, but that would be a temporary relief. He would wake up to the same feeling of complete desolation.

Slowly he began to slip out of his suit, eyes closed. His breathing was heavy, he felt incredibly alone in the darkness. Opening his eyes he stood up and looked at himself in the mirror. He looked at the scars that peppered his legs and back. There was room for another few. He reached for the blade and cut into his leg, the bead of blood releasing him, removing a face from his mind.

He sliced again, blood trickling in rivers down his leg. No one would see these scars on his thigh and in the dark the cameras Mycroft had installed were useless. There was no room left on his leg. He knew precisely how many scars there were. 671. Each one was a reminder of his tormentors. He did not feel satisfied. Donovan had really been furious today. She had spit at him with all the venom she could. She needn't have bothered. He knew he was a worthless freak.

With her face in mind he yanked the belt out of his trousers, the leather gave a resounding crack and he shivered. He raised his arm and began thrashing at his back, the buckle tearing small chunks of flesh away. He kept going until his arm weakened. He stumbled to the couch and lay on his stomach, ignoring the protesting sting of his thighs. Tears fell quietly into the crook of his nose and off his face. There was no one who could save him. They didn't care. They didn't want to care. No one ever would. He was the freak. He lay still in the dark. He was helplessly alone. He breathed in and out slowly. Delete.


	2. Chapter 2

**John**

**Before the bullet**

Sirens blared, the thunderous noise alerting the trembling residents that a bomber was on their way. John Watson strapped his helmet on tighter, somehow the camouflaged helmet had become a source of strength for him.  
He was ready when the first bomb fell, setting the local school alight, crumbling it to dust. The medical tent was prepared to treat anyone who needed them and John was proud to be a part of the team. He had joined the army for this; he needed to help people, to fight for their lives when they couldn't do it any more.  
In all his time in Afghanistan he had come to realise that he had been made for this. This was the life he had been designed for. "Captain." the young lieutenant saluted him before continuing. "There's been reports of light rebel fire in the area, the bomber has been dealt with. We've been given the all clear to begin treating the wounded." John nodded softly and picked up his pack, brushing the light dusting of sand off of it.

"Sergeant Stokes, watch the patients. Change the dressing on officer Frowly's back and make sure you take his temperature. There's antibiotics in the pack by the door, give him those in fifteen minutes." the young medic nodded, turning from John and the lieutenant who seemed anxious to leave. Shouldering the supplies John followed him out of the tent into the blazing sun. It blinded him for a moment, just long enough for him to see his comrade die in front of him and watch, helpless, as a child

lifted his gun and shot him. The wound was agonizing but John was a doctor. He rolled his sleeve up quickly, wincing at the pain. He had to put pressure on the hole or he would bleed out. He pressed the fabric to his shoulder and promptly passed out in the sand.

When awoke, he knew what was coming. his shoulder was throbbing. He could feel that he wouldn't have full mobility back, probably ever. A young enough man in an army uniform handed him an envelope, gave him a pitying glance, and left. The hospital machines wwhirred and beeped as he read the letter. "_Captain Watson, it is our great displesure to inform you that due to your injuries we have no choice but to discharge you..." _Fuck. He was going home.

**Before Sherlock**  
John woke up in terror, his body covered in a sheen of cold sweat. He had been this way ever since his dispatch from the army. His throat was raw and dry, the screaming had not stopped as soon as he had hoped it would. He looked at his watch and groaned. 3:28am. It was still pitch black and he had nothing to do but wallow in the nightmare world he could no longer leave by waking. It was a recurring dream he had. So vivid that he could feel the grains of sand on his face, taste the mist of blood on his tongue. He couldn't rid himself of the face that had forced him to leave the army. The boy had hardly been older than ten and yet there he was, murdering the people who wanted to help him. John lightly brushed the puckered skin of his scarred shoulder, there was no point in trying to sleep now.

He had been home for months, left alone to allow in his invalid state. The only person he really spoke to was his therapist and even she was irritating. He was still shaking, could feel the blood of his friend dripping off his chin. At least in the desert he had a purpose. Here... he was back to being nothing.

The only sounds were the ticking of the clock and the thunk of his cane on the wooden floor. His hands shook awfully. This life was useless. John had long since given up trying and the thought of release made him almost angry that the shot had been a little off his heart. Death was a better fate than this purposelessness.

Clunking over to his drawers he pulled out his revolver. The last piece of army life he owned. He held the gun tightly in his fists, knuckles white with the strain. He sighed and stuffed the firearm back into his desk. He would get up tomorrow and walk in the park. Maybe that would take his mind off the emptiness, if only for a while.


	3. Chapter 3

**Sherlock**

**During the first case**

**A/N There's a lot of time jumping here so be warned**

Sherlock's mind was already at the crime scene before Lestrade had knocked on the door. He was barely able to contain the excitement bubbling in his stomach as he swept through the flat, pulling on his scarf and belstaff as he went. Dr. Watson was seated nearby, staff in hand, staring at him as he tore through. Sherlock had just gone a few steps when he had an idea for an experiment. He went back for him. John Watson was a curiosity. He sat enthralled by Sherlock's deductions even though they weren't very difficult and he had been incorrect on one count (Harry was still a boys name wasn't it?) John had praised him he thought, fantastic tended to be used as praise. The taxi journey turned out to be a pleasant one. Unexpectedly he was enjoying John's company thoroughly. The army doctor relished the case as much as he did, for a different reason obviously.

Sherlock began to get frustrated at the slow manner in which John was texting, but the killer would come back to the scene of his crime and they would catch him easily. Angelo would be glad to see him with another person for once. The man was seemingly not fond of his skull.  
When John had asked him was he gay his mind had gone blank. Was John going to stay if he was? There was no certainty that he would, so Sherlock did the easy thing and pleaded married to his work, and asked John not to flirt with him if that was what he was doing. The splutters of outrage were just a tad over zealous. No time to

focus on that now. A taxi sat outside the address they had sent him. No time to lose, they sprinted off, but not fast enough that Sherlock would miss the staff leaning against the table they had just vacated.  
The chase had proved his point, smirked at the shock on John's face when Angelo returned his cane.

Drugs bust, again, really? So childish. Sherlock caught himself feeling quite gleeful at the faith John had in him, he was standing up to Scotland yard. It clicked. Rachel was the password. Her phone would be with the killer. "Sherlock your taxi's arrived" he hadn't sent for a... killer was here. He saw the confusion in John's eyes as he left. This was too good a chance to miss.

It had taken all of a few seconds to figure it out once he saw the two bottles. It was cunning, playing on peoples fear to make them kill themselves, but his fan? That really intrigued him. However much he tried to step away his mind urged him to prove he was right, his pill was the right one. Sherlock had barely raised the pill to his lips when the cabbie had crumpled on the floor, shot. He peered out for the culprit but no one was there. They were an excellent marksman, they had very probably just saved his life. Now his curiosity got the better of him. He crushed the cabbie's wound beneath his foot until he screamed. Moriarty.

Under the shock blanket Sherlock frowned as Lestrade got his deductions about who had shot the cabbie. Sherlock was mid-sentence when he caught John's eye. He shut up quickly and blamed shock for his rambling. He strode over to John who was waiting for him. He had already liked him more than anyone else he'd ever known, but now... John had shot a man for him. They'd known each other all of two days and he was willing to risk imprisonment to keep Sherlock safe. He could see the light shining out of John, John was good and bright. He shone enough to drown out Sherlock's own darkness. John Watson was a cosy fire in the snow, beating away the cold shadows of winter simply by being. Sherlock felt something unfamiliar stirring in his stomach as he watched his doctor. He knew what it was instantly. It made him smile. This was going to make him an idiot, Sherlock thought to himself as they walked away, side by side. Love makes idiots of us all.

**During the Confession**

To say it would change everything, quite possibly ruin everything. Admission was only the first hurdle but Sherlock knew it was the most dangerous of all. He ran a hand through his hair, lying in bed for the first time in a week. If he was honest with himself he was only doing it because he had seen John look at his hair and smile to himself the last time he'd been in bed for a while. It had been almost a year since John had begun living with him and the feelings that had blossomed during that first case had only grown stronger with time.

The little things John did without knowing. The unconscious lick of his lips, the way his eyes burned brighter than the sun when they were in danger, the endless stream of tea, the flashes of concern for him when the case was long or when there had been a long gap between cases and especially the little sarcastic comments he made. Sherlock had fallen for him again and again but he had never asked for that love in return, he had never expressed the way he felt very well but John's company meant too much to him. He was the sun that shone, lightening flashing over the city on an endless plane of grey, a supernova. He had slowly become the only other reason for Sherlock to live, John's smell the became the scent of home. 221b had became the first home Sherlock had ever had, simply because that was where John was. Not that he was entirely dependent on the man, he still had a mind of his own but suddenly the caseless periods had become less dull, the world in general had become less dull. The idiots had become less grating because John dealt with them, used the charm he usually reserved for women (and occasionally Sherlock) on them. He was the only one Sherlock ever wanted to see. Every melody that flowed from his violin was for John.  
Yes. It had been a year since they had become partners, friends. It was time to reveal the truth, John deserved to know why Sherlock stared at him like he did, deserved the acknowledgment that John was the reason Sherlock ever smiled, he was probably the only reason he was still alive. There had not been any girlfriends for three months now and John had stayed in with him almost everyday. They had began sitting,standing,breathing closer to each other. John did not notice the reaction each casual touch of Sherlock caused. If he did it didn't deter him. Sherlock slipped out of bed and pulled on his robe. John was sitting in the kitchen, tea in hand. He looked up and smiled when Sherlock came in, the closed mouth smile he did only for Sherlock. Sherlock opened the cupboard above the sink and pulled out a jar of John's favourite jam. The other one had run out two days earlier and John had not been up to dealing with the self checkout. He laid it down on the table and watched as John's face lit up with surprise and gratitude. "Thanks Sherlock, You went shopping, and you remembered my favourite jam, seems like something you'd delete" John's head was tilted slightly to the right, a tiny frown creased his brow.

"I never delete anything about you John." Sherlock whispered, just loudly enough for John to hear. He watched the slow rose blush creep up his neck. "Why not?" They were alone yet they whispered, afraid that a single sound would make them lose their nerve. Sherlock swallowed, the moment had arrived. "Because John you are worth all the sentiment in the world to me and I don't want to forget a single second of our time together. I wouldn't delete us for all the cases in the galaxy." John gazed up at him, blue eyes wide. "Us" He mouthed. He stood up slowly, gently making his way to Sherlock who had migrated to the far corner. John held his hand out, it hung in the air between them. Sherlock's own hand moved of it's own accord to land in his, the pale white contrasting with the  
dusty tan. Oh so slowly, John's other had was at his face, hovering millimeters from his cheek. John was waiting, letting Sherlock show him his feelings in the only way he could. Sherlock leaned into the hand, allowing the soft caress that marked the point of no return. Sherlock had reached that point the moment he had turned back for John on that first day. Carefully he pushed John's hair out of his eyes, allowing himself to linger against the soft strands of sandy brown. He searched John for a sign,any indication that this was not good but he never found one. All Sherlock saw was his own feeling mirrored in John's expressive face. They were less than a centimeter apart and Sherlock closed the gap in a matter of seconds, gently holding John to him. He felt John relax into him and put a hand under the shorter man's chin, lowering his lips onto John's. John's response was immediate. Gentle but still firm they kissed for the first time, alone in their home, holding each other tightly. John shone brighter than ever before, his light almost blinding Sherlock. He was the sun and Sherlock the moon; they had been made for one another. The kiss was perfect. Sherlock simply held John close to him and basked in his glow all day, nothing more. That was enough. After all, Sherlock planned them spending the rest of their lives together.


End file.
